Entre los Dos Almas
by Kasage Starrunner
Summary: During the reclamation era of Spain, Quatre is a warrior for el Almohad and the Moors, Trowa is a Basque soldier fighting to protect Spain and remove the Moorish invaders. In a story leading up to Navas de Tolosa, Quatre and Trowa discover that love is s
1. Agua

Entre las dos almas  
  


_Chapter One_

Agua   
  


He stood in the foothills at the edge of Sierra Morena, looking down upon the Guadalquivir, to south toward the sea so distant. Green eyes pierced through the varying growth of evergreens and scrub oak, searching out the quickest route to the grand river and its straightforward route south-east toward ever distant Cordoba.   
  


//Cordoba, lejana y sola.//   
  


Strange, how those words came to him. He looked to his steed, a black beast with feathered feet and a long wavy mane and tail, lithe yet strong. The horse whickered in response, bending his neck to reveal the tips of his ears. The young man scratched them willingly, smiling to himself at the brief moment of calm and peace left only to the forests anymore. A sigh escaped his tanned lips.   
  


"Cordoba lejana y sola, 

Jaca negra, luna grande._"_   
  


The horse whickered again and tossed his head a bit. //move on// he seemed to say, rolling his brown eyes around in his head to the saddle behind him. The young man nodded, brown hair bobbing over one eye, hiding it from view. "You must be thirsty, eh Trueno." He reached up to pat the beast's neck, fingering a moment upon the coarse mane. "It will be a day, yet, before we reach Guadalquivir, let alone Cordoba, my friend. The moon is out, the sun is setting. We'd better find a stream and make camp."   
  


A rumble came in reply, and his friend nuzzled him thoroughly, nibbling at his boots playfully as he mounted, securing his sword at his side. Scanning the horizon he noticed the declining yellow sun. It truly was time to move on, or they would never find place to camp. Trueno wasn't found of the monster shadows in the dark and neither was the youth.

At the slight pressure of his calves, the stallion started forward, trotting a ways, even though it was likely that his energy had been spoiled from the long trek from Castilla. He had been sent, with others, on errand of Rey Alfonso VIII to learn of what the heathen Moros were planning in their stronghold in Cordoba. The young man had thought it more sensible to go directly to Marrakkush, the devil's capital city across the Strait of Gibraltar in Marruecos. However, it was argued that Cordoba had a wider wealth of information, as it was actually inside the country. It was the Royals belief that the Governor or Hajib of Andalusia held more power than the leader of the heathens in their homeland. Besides, know one ever listened to a Vascongado. After all, some for their traditions were at one time more heathen than the Moors, but that was before the romanos invaded, foreign devils.   
  


Up beat, down beat. Up beat, down beat. The trot bounced him continually up and down, a taxing affair, whether one was trying to sit the gate or post on each opposing stride. He felt the horse move under him as he rode, listening sharply for any sign of a local mountain stream feeding into the river below. It was a quiet ride, filled with the unobtrusive songs of birds and the constant two-beat rhythm of his horse's hooves striking the ground. However, the birds' songs of the south were foreign to him. He was a long way from the north coast on Biscay ... A long way from home.   
  


Up beat, down beat. The rhythm continued, as his body unconsciously lifted up and down to better accommodate the movement of the animal below him. Slowly, he became conscious of a different music, one sweeter than the flute he had packed in his saddlebags. The trickling of water ... A stream was nearby. The young man sat back on his haunches, reining Trueno in to a stop.   
  


With a swift and sudden movement, he kicked his feet from the stirrups. Raising his right leg over the side, he slid from the back of his mount to the soft, forest ground beneath. Lion-like he tilted his head, ears appearing to move of their own volition, searching for the source of the sound. West, it was slightly to the west, trickling down the rocky slopes toward its mother river.   
  


The horse looked at him questioningly, ears pricking first toward his master then to the sounds of the arollo. In response, the youth lifted the reins over the steed's head, and lead him carefully toward the sound, listening attentively for signs of possible danger. They were in Moor country, and anything could happen to a Castillano or a man thought to be one. Cautiously, he proceeded to the brook, eyes darting back and forth between the brush as his ears still searched for any foreign sounds. Luckily the only sound he heard was his own breathing and own heavily beating heart.  
  


Finally, through the brush, he caught the rippling glint of the brook they had been searching for. It tumbled of the smooth mountain stones playfully, laughing as it went. With watchful, emerald eyes, he scouted for any hint of disturbance, and then lead his loyal blooded friend forward to drink.   
  


The steed looked about for a moment warily, ears twitching back and forth. Apparently satisfied, Trueno relaxed, and dipped his head to the brook to drink. The stallion guzzled the water eagerly, as befit a healthy horse, and by no manner of grace thoroughly soaked his rider with the leftover dribbles by rubbing his head again on his chest.   
  


"Gracias, Trueno," he grumbled. The horse just pricked his ears at him again, and snorted. "I love you too," he finally laughed.   
  


The youth wiped his hands upon his leggings (the only clean part of him left), and then squatted down on his haunches to take a sip himself. He tread the water with his fingers for a moment before cupping both hands together beneath the surface to drink. Lifting the water to his parched lips he sipped delicately, which was a stark contrast from his greedy, still drooling stallion, admiring the forest silence about him. However, as pulled his hands up with more of the vital liquid, he caught sight of something white reflecting from the other bank.   
  


Hands still at his mouth, he lifted his eyes up to look. His eyes darted about until the settled upon a pair of startled ocean colored eyes. They stared back at him across the way, pale hair gleaming in the dimming light around them. The glinting reflection on the water had given away his reflection as well, leaving the two strange youths to blink at each other for a startled moment. The young man had to rub his eyes to be sure it was true. When he opened them again, the figure was gone, not a leave rustling in the wake of ... whatever it was.   
  


The way the oceanic eyed being had appeared, seemed more like a spirit than a human. He had never seen anyone so perfectly pale. The skin was not the white of death. It was the white of light. He was made like the alabaster that los Moros decorated their castles with. The young man pondered over the scene for a moment. He wasn't Castillano. No, he was a Moor, or he would have hailed him instead of fled.   
  


Brown eyebrows twitched.

There was only one pale Moor that was spoke of in all the Western World. Warriors had met him here and there in battles, and were never heard from again. The King dismissed the tale as an illusion of the sick and wounded. However, to those who had lost friends and family to el Moro Angel, he was very real, and very much not an angel of light-but a fallen angel, an angel of Death, like los Moros heathen arch-demon Iz'rail. But then, whoever heard of a white Moslem? Now he was seeing things.   
  


"I think I need sleep." 

Trueno nickered again, nibbling at the alforjas on his back. The brown haired Basque smiled. He could take a hint. "Time to eat. Full stomachs mean better sleepers." He got a whinny in reply. With well-practiced precision the northerner ungirthed the saddled and removed the heavy leather from the sweaty back of the beast. Taking out a small burlap bag, he held out a handful of oats to his companion. The horse lipped it up greedily and nickered for more. "Un momento, compadre."   
  


Calloused hands scooped out a few hand fulls of the rich grain, dumping on the ground near a particularly nice looking patch of grass. It took no encouraging to point Trueno in the right direction and he quickly began to munch up both grass and grain.   
  


"And now for myself." He opened the small package of dried meat from his pack, and began chewing at it thoughtfully. He looked toward the sky, watching the sun set. //Red, like Sangre.// the young warrior thought. He looked Eastward. //La luna ...// The falling sun had it lit red as well, reminding him again of the poem that he had been muttering ...   
  


"Por el llano, por el veinto, 

jaca negra, luna roja. 

La muerte me esta' mirando 

Desde las torres de Cordoba."   
  


Such a sad, sad song, stuck in his head by some mystic bard, or emanating from his dreams. He couldn't remember where it had come from, but it was there. The youth brushed a bronze hair from his eyes. Too much traveling, it was time for a rest.   
  


Rolling out his blanket a little ways away from Trueno and the stream, the lonely young man lay down to rest his aching muscles. He gazed up at the brightening stars and breathed a sigh. He was always so alone in the world. Basques were few, and the Castellanos failed to even want to learn the Basque language, so foreign and enigmatic to them, compared to the romantic Castillano. He fought on their side, only because ... Well, he didn't really know, after all, it had been a long time since the Moors had control of his homeland Euskotarak- Vasco as the Castillanos called it. Brown eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He owed the Spanish king no true allegiance, but theirs was a common enemy; the heathen Moors and their filthy leaders, the Almohad.   
  


Still, he would rather be at home, in the cool rainy mountains of Vizcaya, not in this horrible, hot southern land.   
  


"!Ay que camino tan largo! 

!Ay mi jaca valerosa! 

!Ay que la muerte me espera, 

antes de llegar a Cordoba!"   
  


With that as a final thought, the boy closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him, consciousness fading into the world of dreams.   
  


*******************************************************************************   
  


Night was woven over the land like a thick veil. The forest was quiet, but for the calls of night owls and the soft padding of deer in the sparse brush and trees. A steel-like calm had settled over the foothills, silence that was threatening. It was as the he forest world knew that some danger was stalking forward in the depths of the abounding darkness.  
  


"You do as I say," whispered a voice in the dark. "If we move quick we can catch the Castillano while he sleeps. He may be able to tell us what Alphonse is planning."   
  


"Right, Master Quatre," replied another, deeper voice, not so certain about the business of his master doing much of anything in the matter of this Spaniard.  
  


The shadows slipped into the dim moonlight, moving swiftly and silently through the patches of forest. The soft-shod feet made little sound on the bed of sticks and leaves. The smaller youth slipped forward, stealthy as a cat, while the other followed more clumsily behind. The former would have preferred to go alone, but Rashid would not allow it and had sent with him a member of his "family", Abdul.   
  


Quatre shuddered, surprise was more effective in singles. He could take that Spaniard down with one blow. If worse came to worse he would have to kill him, a tragedy, but it was one less Castillano for el Almohad to deal with in battle. It was nothing that he hadn't don before-in battle. It was difficult for him to understand why Rashid trusted him so little.

/_It's the Castillanos I don't trust, Master Quatre, not your fighting skills._/

The lips curved upward slightly at the memory. The burly Rashid was so like an over-protective parent, smothering his little ward that he quite knew could care for himself in a pinch.  
  
  
For a brief moment, the young man slipped out of shadow into full face of the moonlight. The white rays glinted on his pale hair, making it look like spun silver. His pale features caught the light like an ancient god, or the angels that the pope spoke of. He was celestial, yet mortal. He heard a sound behind him and his breath quickened.   
  


"Quiet, Abdul," he hissed. The older man froze, as Quatre looked around with the wide blue eyes that had first saw the one he mistakenly called Castillano: Eyes that had first spied him reflecting from the precious water that was so sacred and wonderful.   
  


Seeing nothing, he turned to his diligent partner. "Sorry, Abdul, but try to be more quiet. Their ears are as sharp as Shaitan's himself."   
  


His fellow nodded, and pulled his loose tunic about him, so it would catch any branches again. //There's no honor in dying when the odds are in your favor.// the Moor thought to himself. He noticed that Quatre had started off again, and quietly began moving to catch up to the sharply retreating form. Adjusting the fez atop his head as he went, he muttered several curses about Castillanos and the unholy hours they made him keep.  
  


Soon, the alabaster youth became aware of a change in the smell. Sweet and enticing it came: //Water ... We are here.//   
  


"Stay, Abdul. If there is any trouble at all I'll whistle."   
  


"But Master Quatre!"   
  


"Two is an unfair advantage. I will take care of the Castillano … By myself!"   
  


Unable to argue, the dark-skinned Abdul gave an unwilling consent, allowing the youth to slip off to the brook, whispering quickly away like a phantom-spirit.   
  


Small, lithe feet dodged through the trees with an almost arrogant confidence. Charged by the powers of Allah, he would take the Castillano and force him to tell him everything. He would then, of course, let him free. His earlier thoughts of murder were more foreign to him than anything else. Only allegiance to the Almohad which had united his people even, allowed the thought to enter in the first place.   
  


He stopped. The tiny creek was there, babbling before him in the light of the moon. The rebel's camp was on the other side, he knew because his horse was standing there asleep. He snickered. The horse was a stallion, foolish Spaniards. Stallions always whinnied at the sight of another horse. They were not good at keeping the secrets of a surprise attack. Mares were a much more worthy mount, silent if they were of a fine breed.   
  
  
He shuddered. The horse was such a coarse breed too. He couldn't stand the European mounts. They had no grace and no stamina. They were like the plows that they were meant to pull, bulky and slow. This black beast even looked like iron. The creatures did have strength though. He would give them that.   
  


Silent as a ghost, the pale Berber tread across the brook, marveling at the cool, relieving touch of the clear mountain water. Water was so precious to the people of him home country. The abundance that this foreign land contained amazed him daily. He thanked Allah at every prayer for the blessing that had been bestowed upon him in this world. 

The brook sloshed about him, babbling nonsense, as he slid his feet through to the other bank. The noise was louder than he had hoped it would be, and prayed that Allah would not allow the horse to wake up and give his appearance away. He kept a steady watch on the beast, praying all the while it would remain asleep.  
  


No such luck. Quatre was well aware of the beast's ear swiveling around long before the horse nickered a greeting to him. However what could one do to a horse? Choke it? The Berber thought not, and put a hand to the dagger at his side as the young Vascongado jumped to his feet, pulling his broadsword from its scabbard with trained precision.   
  


//_Pathetic bulky weapon_// the young Berber thought.

"Who's there?" challenged the youth, full aware that the pale youth standing before him was the same he had thought was fantasy earlier today.   
  


The other youth gritted his teeth, clenching the dagger firmer in his fist. "I should ask the same of you, Castillano."   
  


The tall youth's emerald eyes narrowed, glaring coldly. "Castillano. You insult me! I am a Euskaldunak, a Vascongado from the north, and if you dare call me such a name as Castillano again, I will take my sword and send you back to Hell where you belong." The youth was angry. He his loyalty was to Vasconia, and he protected Vasconia when he protected Espana.   
  


"Who are you?" challenged the Angel Moor again. "Why are you in Al-Andalus?"   
  


The words the Basque returned ere as cold as his glare. "I am a man, and I am here for Euskotarak." The brunette did not wish to talk anymore, and charged forward toward the Moor with all of his half-recharged force, wielding his sword in honor of his homeland. Trueno whinnied in response, rearing up on his hind legs as his eyes rolled around wildly, whites showing in fear.   
  


It was a poor show of swordsmanship or of any tactical fighting whatsoever. The blind charge was a foolish angry rush by someone untrained in the art of one-on-one combat. Quatre, just stood as he came, letting calm pass over him as the other vented a rage that the blond could tell was foreign to him. He waited as the Basque's momentum increased, then sidled out of the way just in time for him to tumble toward the creek.   
  


"Perhaps you will talk more at our camp," the Moor stated as the other charged by. Using the opportune moment of imbalance, the pale Arab cracked the Spaniard over the head with the butt of his dagger, letting him fall with a gentle thud to the bank. The horse whinnied again, but Quatre ignored it, looking at the unconscious body of his fallen opponent. He was disgusted, amused, and saddened all at the same time. He was such a strange, foreign enemy-with a manner entirely different from the Castillanos whom he hated so much.   
  


//You aren't a warrior.// thought the angel. //Not in Andalusia and not in Castilla.//   
  


TBC.   
  


Author's Notes:   
  


A: Marruecos: Morocco

B. Iz'rail: Azrael, the archangel of death in Islamic lore.

1. Agua: water   
  


2. Sierra Morena: Mountains in southern Spain, just north of the Guadalquivir River and Cordoba.   
  


3. Guadalquivir: A river, and one that was very sacred to the Moors.   
  


4. Cordoba: The capital city of the Moors during the Reclaimation, at least religiously.   
  


5. Castilla: A province consisting of what is now Castilla-Leon and Castilla-La Mancha in the middle portion of Spain. Its what gives the language, Castillian ( or Spanish) its name.   
  


6. Rey Alfonso VIII: The king of Spain during the decisive era of the Reconquest and Reclaimation of Spain from the Moors.   
  


7. Moors: Moslems who invaded Spain in 711. They were mostly from Morrocco and lived with Christians and Jews in peace untill the death of Abderraman III, in which they split into warring factions, eventually to be taken over by the Almohad- a family of Moors who is mentioned in this chapter.   
  


8. Basques: Also called Vascongado, and Euskaldunak (which is the Basque name for themselves.) They are a people who are isolated in Northern Spain, and are the only remains of a pre-Roman Spanish culture. Their language is related to none known to man today, and are an autonomous Sector called Pais Vasco in modern Spain.   
  


9. Basque Country: Pais Vasco, Vasconia, Euskotarak- The three provinces in the north where the Basques live in Spain. These provinces are Guipuzca, Alava, and Vizcaya.   
  


10. Vizcaya: One of the Basque provinces. Its on the rainy northern coast of the Bay of Biscay.   
  


11. Shaitan: The devil, according to some Moslem traditions.   
  


12: The poem appearing in this chapter is not of the time period. It was written by Lorca, who lived from 1898-1936. The full poem is as follows:   
  


Cancion de Jinete 

by Federico Garcia Lorca   
  


Cordoba, 

Lejana y sola.   
  


Jaca negra, luna grande. 

Y aceitunas en mi alforja. 

Aunque sepa los caminos 

yo nunca llegare a Cordoba.   
  


Por el llano, por el viento, 

jaca negra, luna roja. 

La muerte me esta mirando 

Desde los torres de Cordoba.   
  


Ay que camino tan largo! 

Ay mi jaca valerosa! 

Ay que la muerte me espera, 

Antes de llegar a Cordoba!   
  


Cordoba, 

Lejana y sola.   
  


Cordoba, 

Distant and alone.   
  


Black steed, grand moon. 

And olives in my saddlebags. 

Although I may know the roads 

I will never arrive to Cordoba.   
  


Over the plain, by the wind, 

Black steed, red moon. 

Death is looking at me 

From the towers of Cordoba.   
  


Oh, what a long road! 

Oh, my valient steed! 

Oh that Death waits for me, 

Before I arrive to Cordoba!   
  


Cordoba, 

Distant and alone. 

* * *

Chapter 1 : Agua Chapter 2 : Mentiras Chapter 3 : La Condesita de Cataluna Chapter 4 : Alba 
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* * *

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	2. Mentiras

Entre los dos almas 

_Chapter Two_

Mentiras   
  


A painful throbbing was what woke the hapless Basque from his unconscious state. Emerald eyes cracked open to painful sunlight streaming in on his tan face. The youth cringed and shut his eyes again, waiting for the throbbing to cease before attempting to combat the day.   
  


The pain continued, and when he found that it wasn't about to cease anytime in the near future, he again opened his eyes to the blinding light. The youth grimaced as his pupils adjusted, head agitated further by the strain on his retinas. He blinked off and on to adjust, allowing the orbs to slowly assume a squint.   
  


As his eyes began to focus, so did his mind. How the Hell had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was lunging toward el Moro Angel, and if the stories were right, he should very well be dead.   
  


Well, this wasn't Hell, so where was he?   
  


The young man tried to lift his hand to his head to ease the pain, however, he found them bound behind his back, numb from where he had lain, unconscious, upon them for many hours. He strove to move them, tensing his muscles until the burning sensation of life returned. This accomplished he began to examine his surroundings.   
  


The sunlight that had stung his eyes was streaming through the open flap of what appeared to be a large tent. The Moros were on the move, so it seemed, perhaps returning to Cordoba, and perhaps leaving it. Neither was a pleasant prospect. Why hadn't the angel destroyed him. To be a prisoner was far worse than death. It was certain that unpleasant prospects lay in his living future.   
  


He'd rather have a dagger through his heart.   
  


The light from the flap was broken as a figure passed through the doorway. Shadowed by the streaming white, he approached, examining the Basque prisoner as he went. Seeing he was awake, the figure approached with more caution, walking out of the line of light so that it could flood the youth's eyes again, allowing some time to change position to examine him.   
  


When the imprisoned Vascongado again opened his thin green eyes, the Arab was standing right over him, staring about five inches from his face. With a startled twitch, the young man realized that this was again el Moro Angel, staring at him with his ocean eyes from behind the wraps of the scarf around his face. He wondered curiously what that face looked like under the scarf. The eyes were fascinating, especially compared to the brown of other Moors. The youth just assumed that was to disguise his demonic features. After all, what damned heathen had such eyes of a perfect Mediterranean blue. Trowa was certain that under the Moor's wrappings were a pair of pointy ears, horns, and bat-like wings from a nightmare. He wished that the devil creature would stop examining him.  
  


That wish was not to be granted. The young Moor continued to stare at him, as though fascinated by the bound Vascongado and his rugged features. His eyes glinted with laughter at Trowa's unfortunate condition, which the Basque himself could not see was really quite humorous. However, if the Arab was in that position himself, the young Basque was certain that he would be as bitter and mal-adjusted as himself.   
  


Rage overcoming him, he sought to spit at the face that mocked him. He only succeeded in allowing a dribble of saliva to flow out his mouth and down his chin, leaving him uncomfortable and even angrier. The youth gritted his teeth, now shamed beyond all words.   
  


"That's unbecoming," giggled the hidden youth. Obviously this all was amusing to the pale-faced demon. The Basque snarled, more spittle escaping the curves of his lips. The giggle rose again, like a little boy's. "That's even worse, Vascongado."   
  


The youth started. The Moor ... He had called him by his true nation, not Castillano as was the case last night. Green eyes stared in widened disbelief that these short hours could have caused some civility from such a heathen personage. He bit his tongue before acknowledging his surprise with words. However, his expression had already been noted, and the Angel was speaking to him again.   
  


"Don't look so startled. Just because you're my prisoner doesn't mean I will be barbarous to you. You're defenseless. There is no need to goad a trapped and defenseless man. It only brings him to wrath, which needlessly causes him to get hurt. There's destruction enough without causing someone's Death by way of foolish and hateful words. If Castillano offends you than maybe you are not the camel manure I first thought you were."   
  


The monster was actually making sense. Was he merely deceiving him, or was it the stories of el Moro Angel that were deceptive? He wasn't certain. His blood told him the Moor was not to be trusted, however, his soul whispered other more holy and forgiving words.   
  


No. He was a Moor. The Moors were their enemies, a horrible curse to be driven out at all costs. They were the invaders. They had done wrong by taking over Espana and Vasconia. The race was a scourge to be destroyed. They were heathens, worshipping a pagan god, refusing to acknowledge the Savior. They were to be wiped from the earth like the Canaanites. These words, these words were only creations of his mind, meant to trick him into destroying his native land. He would not listen to the Moor. He was a demon, trying to steal his soul for the sake of turning this wonderful country to his pagan rule. His lies would fall upon deaf ears.   
  


The wild argument was more visible than it seemed to the eyes of the spectator. The Moor could not help but see the moral dilemma going on in the eyes of the prisoner. It startled him to see such a human side in his enemy, but he had always known that all enemies were innately human. It was why at every death he announced an apology to Allah for the horrible deed committed at his hands. Even in war, killing felt like murder.   
  


And yet, this Spaniard--no Basque: He was different still. His soul writhed in his eyes over what to do about a kind enemy. Obviously, he was confused by the Arab's own actions. The Angel wondered what lies the Castillanos told their soldiers. What lies did el Almohad tell their own? Was his perception false? These Catolicos ... Could they reason soundly and without hate like any Islamic man?   
  


He shook off the thought. Their actions were always done with pure hate. They were hypocrites, killing all those around them in the name of their God not really knowing what God was. He had never seen one Catolico take time outside of Mass to call upon their God in some peaceful manner. Did they bow to their God on their own time? No. Did they endeavor in peaceful adventures such as poetry and philosophy to get closer to their God? No. He himself took time to bow to Allah in the Holy City more than necessary, as did his fellow soldiers in this camp. Los cristianos in all their so-called enlightenment knew nothing but hatred and destruction.   
  


The pale Moor looked at the Vascongado lying tensely before him. There was an implanted anger in those eyes that he failed to understand, but something else. Pain? He noted the way the brown eyebrows knitted into the skull, wrinkling the tanned skin in obvious lines of distress. The youth shuddered as he felt a shadow of the pain in the other's head. He had done that to him.   
  


Features that were once angry lightened in response to the knowledge. A sympathetic chord pulsed through his heart and veins. He had hurt the Vascongado. That was ... unforgivable. Despite what the Kalifate said, even those who fought them were innately human.   
  


Taking leave of the prisoner for a moment, he stood and closed the tent flap, blocking the entrance of the light, which could only exaggerate the pain felt by the Basque. Besides, there were candles lit from where the guard had been stationed since Midnight. They provided the tent with enough light, and it was softer-flickering, like a true enlightened soul. That flicker would have to suffice for the duration of the day.   
  


The young Moor looked back to the Spaniard where he lay with his eyes closed. He was an admirable specimen, compared to the other soldiers he had killed. He was a young man, 15 or 16. Either soldiers often came from his family or he was an orphan or third son. His youth was uncommon, as it was in the Moorish community, however the Moor himself had felt a great debt to his society. Maybe it was the same with the young Vascongado.   
  


With adept fingers, he removed the scarf wrapped around his head, an object meant more to protect it from the harsh sunlight than anything else. Taking the ends, he dipped in into a small basin of water set aside for the duration of their stay near the arollo. He let it soak for a moment, watching the other again. It was strange how he let his mahogany hair fall over his face. It made him seem mysterious. He seemed like ... A child. He didn't belong to war. The features were too sculpted, body too perfect, emotions too ... strong. Yes, he was a child. Children weren't to fight battles.   
  


But then, the Moor himself was a child. He was not a warrior either; at least not by definition. Who then as he to insult this prostrated man before him?  
  


The youth lifted his scarf from the basin, wringing it in his hands until it was moist rather than dripping. Thus armed, he returned to the side of the prisoner, placing the scarf to the injured Basque's face to wipe of the spittle and alleviate any fever that may have come with the pain. He needn't keep his shame. The Berber would make him look like a boy again, instead of a drooling demon.   
  


/_Rashid would never approve of this_./ No, an enemy did not deserve such preferential treatment, but he was not Rashid's prisoner. No it was the youth who had captured the Basque, and the Berber would do with him what he wanted.   
  


The Basque felt the cool touch of the scarf against his lips and opened his eyes again. His mouth opened with them, releasing a breath in a labored fashion. The cool, it felt so wonderful on his beleaguered skin. Trowa focused his eyes once more, trying through the pain to discern what was going on. The blurred outlines of the Moor appeared before him. He didn't understand what was happening. Why was his captor cleaning his face? Didn't he know the Vascongado could just reach out and bite him? Why wasn't he doing just that? The green orbs winked in the dim light. The Moor had even shut the tent flap. Why?   
  


The youth shifted his body again, trying to keep his arms from becoming numb once again. Meanwhile, the young moor continued his vigil, dabbing the scarf to the Vascongado's head as he become more comfortable. The youth finally stopped fidgeting, letting the coolness of the damp cloth carry away the throbbing pain in his head. It let his soul breath, a pleasant contrast to his life as it had been lately.   
  


The Berber lifted his hand away, leaving the Basque with the scarf draped over his forehead. The youth's eyes followed him, wanting to learn more about the boy-for that was what he was-who had so skillfully knocked him unconscious. He now had a clear view of his captor, the first he'd had since they met through each other's reflections. It was a face that startled him, not for ugliness, but for beauty. His skin was indeed pure alabaster. He had a round, feminine face that complimented the beautiful eyes that had caught his interest from the start. His lips were effeminate, beautiful things like in the palace paintings from Italy, only more angelic. His hair was spun white-gold, falling lightly into his face like silken threads. The candlelight appeared to make it dance, flickers of laughter passing over all of his beautiful, innocent features.   
  


That face was the last thing he expected. It had never once occurred to him that el Moro Angel might actually look like an angel, and he was indeed divine. The youth wondered how something so heaven sent could have been placed in such a heathen place. He didn't even look like a Moor.   
  


The youth blinked, trying to regain his mental focus. He was an enemy. He should not be blind-sighted by his beauty. It was an illusion, set by the other Moors to trick him and render him helpless. Was he to think this creature innocent and then be stabbed in the back? No, he couldn't be distracted by appearances. He'd end up like some tragic Greek hero, or worse.   
  


But he had to admit that something inside him had stirred-Something he wasn't certain he wanted to acknowledge.   
  


The Berber youth sat back on his haunches and looked at the prisoner. "You know, you are probably going to be here for a while," he stated gently.   
  


The Basque's face flushed an angry crimson as he moved to say something, however the pain shot back to his head and he was forced to calm his raging emotions. Besides, what the Moor said was sensible. The Moor had captured him. If he were let go, it would be a breach of their security. Castilla and Vasconia would have to bargain to get him back. He would definitely be in the Moor's hands longer than he wished.   
  


However, in a sense he was lucky to be alive. Being alive was some feat indeed, as any other soldier would have been killed by el Moro Angel. Que suerte!   
  


The Angel saw him relax and spoke again. "I don't hate you because you're my enemy. Allah would not like that." He tensed at the mention of Allah, fearing the reaction of the stranger.   
  


"I'm the prisoner. It's your heathen religion and I can't stop you from it," muttered the Basque. It was the first thing he had said since being captured. The Arab relaxed when he found the voice more disgruntled than angry.   
  


He trailed the ground with his fingertips, staring at the patterns made in the dirt that the tent was situated on. "We should get to know each other better," murmured the youth unconsciously. "There's no one else my age around here." He looked up, blue-green eyes tinted with a bit of loneliness. "I'd talk to an enemy if it meant having ..."   
  


He cut himself off. What he was doing was traitorous in a sense. However, he couldn't deny that it was true. The Maguanacs were more of family than anyone else. He had never been near a human being that shared the same passions and actions as he. No one else was 15, but this prisoner maybe, and that gave him something interesting. He couldn't trust him- he was a Catolico-but someone to talk to was better than no one at all. Surely the Vascongado could see the sense in that.   
  


The Basque tensed. There was something true in what the Moor was saying. If he was going to be stuck here, he wanted to be "comfortable". If the youth was going to converse with him like a civil human being he shouldn't just spit at the chance. After all, insight into one's enemy was a very valuable thing.   
  


He grimaced. The damned arms were falling asleep again. He looked at the Moor. "If I'm going to be here for awhile," he said roughly, "please sit me up before my arms are useless."   
  


The blonde looked to where the Spaniard's arms were pinned uncomfortably under his body. Taking a saddlebag, he propped up the Basque's body so that his fingers were free to move about. Grateful, the brunette began tensing his arm muscles, restoring full sensation to the abused appendages while the white Moor watched him intently.   
  


"Gracias," he muttered reluctantly, thoughts centered in his new found "Libertad." He twitched his lip in thought, watching how the blond waited for his next request or movement. How civil this Moor could be. He wondered if there were others like this. The Catholics would never treat a Moor in this manner, or the majority anyway. They would be abused, even executed. The youth wondered if it was religion or just good-nature that made the Angel act this way.   
  


It made the youth feel that he owed him something.   
  


"Me llamo Trowa ..." The voice that came was quiet and reserved, as if the Basque were uncertain as to the morality of telling the demon Moor his name. Hands twisted in their bindings as he looked, quite shamefully to the ground. He was a disgrace for doing this. Surely God would punish him. He masked his shame quickly, not wanting the Moor to discern his embarrassment. However, the blond youth was not satisfied with this false display. He wanted the true face of Trowa.   
  


Silently, the Moor grabbed the tan face and forced it to look back up at him, trying to pierce through the mask into the truth within. When he found it, the head was released, but Trowa kept his eyes upon the Moor's face, his own burning more than ever with verguenza.   
  


"I'm called Quatre. Quatre Raberba. Mucho gusto, Trowa el Vascongado."   
  


"Mucho gusto, Quatre Raberba."   
  


******************************************************************************   
  


The tall fez-clad form of Abdul paced up and down stretch of ground nearest the tent his master was situated in. Thick black eyebrows knit over pensive brown eyes, wrinkling his cinnamon forehead like an old man's. His stance was stooped as he marched across the ground, hands locked behind his back. He was worried. Master Quatre had spent far to long in the tent with that ... Thing. He should have returned by now. He would feel far safer once the guard was restored to his post and Quatre was safe within his sight.   
  


Abdul's ears pricked. Footsteps coming from behind him. Startled he stopped in his tracks and turned around. However, he breathed a tense sigh of relief as he recognised the figure approaching. It was only Rashid. The grim bearded man looked at the younger Maguanac with stern reproach in his eyes as he walked toward him, as though it were wrong not to trust Master Quatre. Abdul slumped under the gaze, making himself appear more minute before the burly, tall form of his elder. Next to master Quatre, Rashid was the leader. What he said was done, for all of the Maguanac clan.   
  


Abdul adjusted his belt, gathering his wits about him to speak. "I don't like him being alone in there, Rashid."   
  


A bushy eyebrow raised, but Abdul knew that underneath the stern exterior, there was a shade of worry even within Rashid. Master Quatre was the world to them, some angel dropped straight from heaven, taken under their wing after his father had disowned him for defending his country and family. They protected him like a brother, and when danger was near all were nervous on his behalf.   
  


Not that Quatre ever seemed to notice. He was often enough oblivious to their worry and his own, blocking out fear and taking on responsibilities that even a man of forty would resist. He was an admirable youth, one whose mind had saved them in more than one battle, and they all owed him their lives.   
  


Abdul knew that Rashid understood this better than anybody.   
  


"It could be dangerous." Abdul added after the elder man did not respond. "That young man fights on behalf of the Christians, those who would wipe us out like we were some plague. What if he works heathen magic upon him?"   
  


"Abdul, the catolicos have no more mystic powers than we do. The devils seem to ignore them as much as Allah himself does. I trust Master Quatre to keep himself out of trouble. As long as the rebel remains bound he is harmless." The older man looked down from under his bushy eyebrows, stern voice reverberating through the foothills like the rumble of a bear.   
  


"Do /you/ think there is any danger in him, Rashid?" The voice was curious, though casual, as though he knew the train of thought before it was spoken. Abdul had, in the duration of the conversation, relaxed slightly, allowing his muscles some rest- the first they'd had since the confrontation with the Castillano-or Vascongado as Master Quatre preferred.   
  


The burly Maguanac's mouth twitched, as he lifted a finger to his beard. Locked in thought, the elder's words came out slowly. Rashid was a laboring tactician. His mind was much slower than the younger Quatre's. Its results, however delayed, were on the contrary nearly as sharp as the younger boy's, and often more rooted in common sense.   
  


"The caballero was alone, which causes me to worry. Los Castillanos travel in groups into battle, seldom by themselves unless their ways are more devious. He could have been a scout for a larger band, or worse a spy heading toward Cordoba.   
  


"I'll suggest to Master Quatre that we do not remain at this camp much longer. It could be dangerous to el Almohad if we do such. Returning to Cordoba would be our safest route. There he could be properly investigated. If they choose to ignore this threat, there are friends in Sevilla and Grenada who will deal with him more effectively."   
  


Abdul nodded, apparently satisfied. Moving out would save them the trouble of a battle and if el Almohad decided to destroy the Christian, Quatre would not be able to argue. It would be in the hands of Allah.   
  


The tent flap rustled open behind them. Abdul and Rashid turned around to watch their master approach.   
  


"Salaam!" cried the blond youth good-naturedly. The two found it odd that after an encounter with an enemy, the youth could be so happy. However, Quatre Raberba was quite odd to begin with, sensitive and intuitive. Allah had gifted him greatly, and he would surely have a place set for him in Paradise.   
  


"Salaam," replied the others, less enthusiastically. The blonde noticed the lack of emotion and paused. His friends were tense. Was the presence of the Basque that disturbing to them?   
  


"Rashid, Abdul, is everything alright?"   
  


"In the scheme of things, everything's fine Master Quatre," replied Rashid half-heartedly.   
  


Quatre shook his head and smiled. "Something is bothering you. You're tense and reluctant to tell me something." He looked to Abdul, piercing him gently with his gorgeous eyes, seeking through the casuality of the young Maguanac to find the source of their worry.   
  


The cinnamon skinned man shrugged from Quatre's gaze, "Salaaming" quickly and leaving him with only Rashid to speak to.   
  


Disappointed, Quatre turned to the more intimidating of his fellows. "Speak your mind, Rashid. There's only Allah and his angels here to hear us."   
  


The gruff man put his hands on the boy's shoulders, causing the young, pale face to look straight into his more haggard and imposing one. The boy felt so slight under his fingers. It was amazing what a boy Master Quatre was. He had the wisdom of an old man, yet Rashid could encircle the boy's waist with just his own two hands.   
  


"Listen to me, Master Quatre," Rashid implored. "We are in a dangerous situation here in the foothills. That boy, that Basque- he is a member of the enemy, an enemy whose goal is to either destroy all of us Moors, or push us back into the desert. He could harm us. I know that you wish to get information from him, but it may be in our best interests to just destroy him and return to the city of Cordoba where we can warn el Almohad. The Spaniards are getting braver, Master Quatre. They would not hesitate to slit your throat while you dreamed in the arms of the Holy One."   
  


The boy stumbled, oceanic eyes confused. They churned like the rough seas of the Atlantic, swirling about in hues of green, blue, and for a moment gray. His pupils dilated with fear and wonder. What Rashid was saying was against his principles-- even Allah's will. He was suggesting that they kill a helpless man. What justice was there in that? The boy sought to push away from his mentor, flimsy arms meeting up with broad iron shoulders.   
  


His head dropped to the ground for a moment. He had to recover himself before his eyes could meet Rashid's again. Looking up they misted over with tears. "Rashid ..." his voiced quavered. "Rashid, Allah would never forgive me, forgive us. In a battle one has to defend one's life, one's country, but outside a battle a man is a man. A man can be one's enemy in battle, but a friend outside its grounds. I can't destroy him, and I can't let you. That would be murder."   
  


Rashid released the boy and sighed. He could be so stubborn and yet ... There was justice to his statement. Quatre was right, however. Rashid was right, but the young blonde was right on a higher level. Killing a captive, helpless man would be a sin and unforgivable. For that, all of their graves would grow cold and the worms would eat their rotting corpses.   
  


He would just have to do as he had first told Abdul- let the Law decide. Perhaps before that, the Vascongado would escape. That would make Master Quatre very happy he assumed.   
  


Quatre quivered where he stood, not certain of what to make of Rashid's demeanor. He could be angry-he masked his emotions so well. Would he still insist on the destruction of the young man lying bound in the tent?   
  


"Rashid ..." The voice was pleading. Quatre wasn't certain what the older man was feeling. "He's a boy Rashid. To me he's just a boy, un nino. He has a family and his name- He told me hi-"   
  


A calloused hand reached forward and patted the blond head. "We shall move out, then Quatre. Your Spaniard prisoner will be taken to Cordoba. If Allah wants him, he'll see that el Almohad keeps him alive. You can relax your soul, young master."   
  


The boy nearly fainted in response. His honor, his soul, it was saved. Rashid understood. "Thank you so much," murmured the boy. Mercy flowed over his soul like a rolling river, cleansing the guilt he had already begun to feel. He seemed to coo the words of thanks, as if he were but a tiny baby. Lips allowed a sigh of relief to escape and Rashid turned away, arms crossed over his chest.   
  


"We leave tomorrow at sunrise, Master Quatre. Organize your supplies."   
  


The youth watched the burly form march off into another tent, Abdul's he noted. As soon as he disappeared his body gave way to the ground and a relieved giggle fled his soul.   
  


/_He is safe_./ thought Quatre. /_He is safe, so I am safe_./ He paused in his thoughts, feeling his heart beat strangely in his chest. There was something there, something different in its rhythm. He didn't understand what it was. Could it be that there were less-than-holy reasons for him to protect Trowa?   
  


He shook it off as a sign from Allah.   
  


TBC.   
  


Author's Notes:   
  


1. Mentiras: Lies, actually refering to the lies that they believe about each other. These are the lies that cause their hatred for each other- Stereotypes that are etched firmly in their minds.   
  


2. Que suerte! : Literally, What luck!   
  


3. Me llamo Trowa: My name is Trowa.   
  


4. Verguenza: Embaressment.   
  


5. Mucho gusto: In the Spanish culture this is typically said upon meeting someone. It means literally "Much pleasure." Its their equivalent of "Nice to meet you."   
  


6. Cabellero: A knight, horseman, or noble. On this story it refers obviously to Horseman.   
  


7. Salaam: An Islamic and Jewish greeting and parting. Literally "Peace."   
  


8. Nino: spelled wrong in this text for lack of ~, "child". 

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	3. La Condesita de Cataluna

Entre las dos Almas

_Chapter Three_

Condesita de Cataluna   
  


A high backed padded chair was the focus of the small office-like room. It was a great wooden thing, padded in luxurious dark leather studded with brass and silver. The young lady who sat in it was peculiar, pale angled face and willowy features. Her white-blonde hair hung down her back like a waterfall, unbound and elegant. It was a contrast to her near black brows, that crossed over her brown. A lighter shade shadowed that brow underneath, just slightly lighter brown. It gave her air of disdain, cultured disdain, but it was there none-the-less, heightened by the frightening cold glare of icy blue eyes. It made her at once seem old and prejudiced, when she was really but a girl.   
  


Deep in thought she let the shadows pass through the room about her, ignoring the passing time as though it were an irrelevent and pointless thing. Busy fingers moved deftly across her desk, biding time with an elegant tapping sound that seemed to count of the seconds. Candlelight flickered from the chandelier above sending cascades of variable light across the faces long ago frescoed into the ceiling for the comfort of any who cared look upward, not that the young woman found such cultured things any use. The ceiling was the only painted spot in the room, the fortress being of stone. The stone was what made it strong. It protected her world, and this was of importance. Underneath the rich facade it was an alcazar, a castilla and this pleased her more than the rich adornment of tapestries entitled to her by rank and birth.   
  


This woman's fortress was one of the many palacios in Barcelona. It was a rich port town, full of rich people and their works, ruled over by the minor groups of aristocrats of graceful birth such as herself that congregated in la Plaza de Cataluna. Isolated by the Mediteraneo, the Pireneos, and the surrounding foothills, the Catalunians lived in an uneasy bliss after only two centuries of freedom from Moros. Through the narrow window she could see the business of the people on the street, peasants to her. Noisy, clamorous markets, ship builders, fishermen, and sailors; they were an annoyance, but they were hers. It had connections. A trading port was a good place to rule.  
  


It was also a place well worth being known and a place worthy of ruling the Western hemisphere. The young woman smirked in her chair where she sat. That was precisely what she wanted. As a Condesita de Barcelona, Dama Dorotea de Cataluna would have just that, and no person or thing was about to stand in her way. She would betray God himself to get her way- sell her soul to the Devil. She smiled briefly, letting the expression paint itself on then quickly fade, like the swiftly setting sun. Happiness was a passing gesture, useless, but pleasant. A sigh passed from her lips, body shifting with the heavy exhale of breath from frustration and boredom.   
  


Gloved white fingers shuffled the letters strewn carelessly about her desk, the useless ones carefully tossed aside where they would give her no further annoyance. Those that were important she placed neatly before her, taking care not to misplace them admist the piles of rubbish from her various suitors and admirers, invitations to cenar and other such useless nonsense. She didn't have time to be plagued by the pursuit of the common gentlemen and their ladies. She had a world to dominate-after a fashion.   
  


"Nothing interesting."

A knock came at the door, which Dorotea insisted remain shut despite the difficulty in opening it because of its heavy make. The sound echoed in the room and the countess reveled in it. Dark, forboding … thump, thump, like muffled hoofbeats.

"Who is it?"

"It's Alfonso, Dama."

"Pesky cousin," she muttered, flicking her hair and standing, letting it all fall like golden water down her back.

"Dama, I've a letter for you."

"Criste, open the door. Don't daudle outside like a fool waiting for trouble."

She heard a grunt, as the door creaked open. There really should be two men opening that door, but Alfonso could handle it on his own. He was always trying to prove his place in the court, wheedle his way into power.

At least, Dorotea saw it that way. She didn't take well to young Alfonso's mild ways. Neither did her uncle, so he sent the boy to her.

Alfonso passed through the thin opening in the door like a shadow, breathing heavily from unfamiliar exhertion. Shoulders slacked, his chest heaved, as though he had ran all the way up the steep steps. 

"Urgent business? You know you really shouldn't stand that way. Its uncultured. You look like an animal."

The youth straightened, and tossed some blond hair from his face. Dorotea watched amused. Young Alfonso was a shadow of the condesita in everything, from the more gray tone of his eyes, to the sandy streaks in his hair, to his thin, girlish frame. The only thing he did not shadow her in was his character. No, that was all his own. The poor coward was supposed to be a knight. There would be no roads to glory for Alfonso, despite being named after the king.

The youth offered the letter in his trembling hand. The icy woman scowled at the trembling. Another sign of weakness. "Its from Bordeaux, dama."

"From whom?"

"La Dama Une de Burgundia."

Lady Une of Burgundy? And she was in Bordeaux. Yes, this was important. The place was unfamiliar, but the name was a vital acquaintance.   
  


Dorotea held out her hand for the letter. The sandy haired young man dropped it carefully and then stood and watched like a mule.

"You may be excused, Alfonso," she said irritably, laying the letter on her desk between her hands.

The boy nodded and squeezed again through the door, shutting it with a loud thump. Dorotea meanwhile, turned her full attention to the letter from the Lady.

Dame Jeanne-Helene Une was a noble-born French-woman that the younger woman had met in her brief schooling in the city of Paris. At the time, the frosty blond had been a young, naive daughter of the former Count of Barcelona. Her nature had been pure, simple, and unspoiled. She was deeply captivated by the Church and by God, and spent much of her time wandering the halls of Notre Dame and other such religious places, strengthening her faith while become a "finished" noblewoman.   
  


Then the news came to her: The Moors had attacked her beloved province and the grand city she called home. Her noble and wonderful father, who had been to her the very essence and soul of her life and world was killed doing his duty as the provicial leader. Perhaps he was too noble, perhaps to bold; but he was murdered by the hands of heathens. Killed dead by unforgiving invaders with the name of El Almohad.   
  


How she had learned to hate them then. The had plucked her precious father from her, and she still had to remain in Paris. A deep feeling a revenge had been stowed in her and God was put away. What kind of a God would let such a kind and honorable man as her father die? She had grown bitter and remorseful, allowing her heart to become like a hardened old man's, something entirely unsuitable for a woman of affluence.   
  


Then she had met Dame Une. It had been a chance run in on the street. The older woman had knocked her off the feet, causing her to curse in her own native tongue. The brunnette had then replied that the words were unbecoming of a lady and they formed a friendship ever since. The frosty woman had always admired Lady Une's politics-picking up a foreign tongue to satisfy political motives was dangerous and fascinating indeed. A noble who was not afraid of danger to one's health, wealth, or position was someone truly to be admired in this world. It was again, one of the Lady's own ideals, but the Condesita firmly agreed with her.   
  


As it was, Dame Une had become her mentor, teaching her to hold her tongue but never be afraid to take action in her country's benefit, as it would see to her own. The lady had made her ambitious, molding the guilt and revenge of her naive mind into something more calm and calculated. The Lady taught her to wear the mask of a gambler, to bluff, and to move slowly and deliberately, allowing one's enemies to walk themselves into checkmate. She taught her that a woman had her own influence in society, and its subtleties were far more powerful than the brute show of strength than modern men were want to abuse. Dame Une had taught Dorotea how dangerous a small word could be, and it had opened up worlds of opportunity in the wake of a true tragedy.   
  


La Condesita de Barcelona de Cataluna had returned home far the better for the experience.   
  


Delicately, the young woman lifted the letter between thumb and forefinger, opening it with a sharp movement by her right hand. With maddening interest she on folded the parchment to reveal its dated contents, nimbly peeling back the remains of the torn wax seal.   
  


// Dame Une, what do you have to say? // thought Dorotea, glancing at the Catalan script.   
  
  
  


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   
  


Querida Dama Dorotea,   
  


I hope that this letter has reached you with good health and a height of ambition.   
  


It is my pleasure to inform you that I have left the confines of Paris, and am currently situated in Bordeaux. It is my plan to meet you in Andorra within the month, weather permitting.   
  


I have acquisitioned the help of His Excellency, Treize Khushrenada. As he is of high-born descent it is my prompt assumption that you would be willing to make his acquaitance. As to His Excellency, he is bringing with him an officer of high regard that may help put to rest any fear the Moorish invaders have instilled in your people. They are a menace to the entire Mediterraen coast and the Spanish Alliance has not been effective in its Reconquest efforts.   
  


I hope that you do not think my efforts too forward, but you yourself have made intonations of war agaist your own nation, let alone the Berbers. It is my hope that this assistance can be of mutual benefit to the both of us, Condesita.   
  


Again, my regards to your well-being, 

Dame Jeanne-Helene Une   
  


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   
  


The letter brought a sinister grin to her features. It was to be done then. Cataluna was to be the most powerful force in Spain-no the world- if Dorotea had her way in things, and she would have her way in things.   
  


She glanced at the page again, curious as to this Treize Khushrenada and his unknown officer. She found it utterly fascinating that her friend would go behind her back in a matter such as this, but then she was prone to pulling strings without informing any of her intimate circle members. It was something Dorotea had been forced to become used to with time. Besides, Lady Une would not have recommended any person of ill repoire, but her mind wound in circles. What kind of power did His Excellency wield? Was it truly enough to fuel the most fantastic war of the century as Dame Une suggested?   
  


// War ... //   
  


The word had never quite resounded in her mind before, at least not in this context. She had read the Scriptures, of the Holy Wars and other battle stories passed on by monks and historians, but had never until now considered the possibility.   
  


What a superior way to make own's country the ultimate force in the world! War ... She curled the word on her tongue, fondling it as the idea fell more firmly in her brain. Yes, war was what she wanted; Not the petty battles that the castillanos fought against the Moorish invaders, no. She wanted more than an escape from an oppressor. She wanted the kind of war that people talked about for ages after it has passed. War that makes one's memory shudder with the horror and wonder that such atrocities could ever occur. A war that would make Cataluna superior forever, with epics like the Illiad written in its wake.   
  


She smiled, delicate lips seeming cruel and unforgiving.   
  


/ /War ... What a beautiful, horrible word.//   
  


She lowered her brows, staring intently at the parchment with its ink-stained letters and wonderful, glorious words. A new type of fanaticism had grown in her eyes. Among the winter shards of cruelty and power hunger came the spirals and twists of megalomania and worse ... Oh what a wondrous door the Lady's letter had opened. She would have to thank her personally in Andorra.   
  


Andorra, yes ... That was where she was to go. Clutching the letter she stood, boots clicking acrossed the cold stones of the office floor. Step, step- each foot sounded like a triumphant cry- I will be victorious!   
  


Frozen, horrid, beautiful eyes narrowed. //I will be victorious.//   
  


*****************************************************************************   
  


Author's Notes:   
  


1. Condesita/Condesa de Cataluna: The Contess of Catalonia. The city of Barcelona, in Catalonia or the Mediteranean near the Pyrenees was run by Counts. As appropriate to this story, Dorothy-Dorotea is one of the Countesses. I am assuming that Condesita is the unmarried form of Condesa, as I have seen it in previous works of literature.   
  


2. Alcazar- um, an Arabic borrowed word for castle.   
  


3. Dama/Dame: Spanish and French (respectively) for Lady.   
  


4. Bordeaux: A major city in France, the only one anywhere near the Spanish border.   
  


5. Dame Jeanne-Helene Une: Joan Helen Une ... I really found it necessary to give her a first name. I tried to find strong sounding French names. Its prounounced- Zhahn Aylen, or something close. I didn't take French.   
  


6. Andorra: A tiny little protectorate that's between France and Spain where they speak Catalan. 

7. Berbers: Actually, what Quatre is in this script. More will come in context but as I was informed and also double checked, the Berbers were indeed the "blonde haired, blue eyed Arabs." The Berbers are from Morrocco, Tunisia, and Libya for the most part. The palest are along the line of the Middle Atlas Mts. As Moors, some follow a heretical doctrine called Khajiri, which I am trying to find more info about. They have several traditions that I am planning to incorporate which may "bother" some readers, so be prepared, though I don't want to spoil the plot twist for you.   
  


8. Cenar: to eat dinner.   
  
  
  


Other Notes:   
  


I have just finished A Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, so some of you may notice the odd tone this section has taken. It was indeed, very inspired by that novel. Heh, Dorothy had become very Dorian and Une very Lord Henry-ish ... Sorry. 

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	4. Alba

Entre las dos almas   
  
  


Notes: 

There is in this section a rather odd rear nudity scene. If you would remotely be offended by it, please skip past that section. Its starts with Trowa needing to relieve himself and ends when they begin to return to camp. I just thought I would place that disclaimer, just in case. My guess is most of you won't care.   
  
  


Chapter Four

Alba   
  


Trowa had slept for what had seemed like an eternity before he awoke next. His eyes had cracked open to darkness, a soothing sign compared to the blinding light that had met his eyes upon his last waking moments.   
  


It had not taken him long to succumb to slumber. After the young Berber-or Arab or whatever that damned blonde was- had left, there had been practically nothing left to do again. He had looked about for awhile, attempting to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. Unfortunately, his head had begun to ache again, and heavy lids had dropped closed without warning.   
  


Shifting his weight about, the Basque quickly discovered that he was lying flat on his back again. He didn't know if he fell or he had been lain there so that his sleep would be more comfortable. It was arguable whether the change in position had been of any benefit. As he stretched his body, a sharp pain came from his lower back where his knuckles had dug into the skin. He grimaced and tried to change their position, only to find that his arms were numb again. On the up side, his headache had completely vanished.   
  


That about the only good thing he discovered. The other was more disorienting. His guard had disappeared. The brown haired youth wondered briefly what had happened to him. He could be out for a drink, or just outside waiting for any movement of escape-not that escape was even logical at this point. He twitched his mouth, trying to think of a way out, gritting his teeth angrily when he could think of none. The least he could do was get comfortable.   
  


Trowa twisted his body, attempting, in vane, to roll himself to a more comfortable position upon his stomach. His boots scuffed against the ground as he fought with his beleaguered muscles. They were close to immobile, from lack of sustenance or otherwise. The youth touched his tongue to his teeth, realising all at once that his mouth was parched. He wondered morbidly if that was how he would die-tongue swollen and lolling out of his mouth like a mangy ferel dog.   
  


His body fell to his stomach side with a thud, muscles giving way without allowing him time to roll over more gracefully. On the up side, he was now able to have feeling in his arms. However, on the down side, he couldn't really see anyone who walked through the tent flap to "visit" him.   
  


"Dios," he muttered under his breath, realizing his folly too late. No sense in taxing his muscles again so soon. They were stiff and worn as it was. He sat and listened, hoping to catch any wind of any conversations drifting around outside. It was night-time, where were those Moors? Not asleep- no. They would have guards stationed. However, his appeared to be missing and that bothered him. Maybe they were all doing incantations as part of some heathen ritual.   
  


He half expected the burly Moor to apparate in front of his eyes, glaring under his red fez with black malignant eyes piercing outward and into his soul from under his heavy black browns. His mind ran away with him, visualizing the brown skinned man shifting his shape-becoming a red-skinned devil with clawed hands poised to rip out his soul as sacrifice to Satan.   
  


The visage caused his whole body to quake uncontrollably. He must be feverish. He needed water, badly. It was a remote thought, detached from the halluncination running rampant in his mind. He tried to scream, but his mouth was too dry to utter a sound. Then the vision broke, like shattered glass. 

Trowa breathed heavily, pulse still racing with uncontrollable fear. It was an illusion- a mind trick, he was fine. But what had released him? He twisted his head as he heard the light scuffing of feet skittering across the dirt in front of his tent. That was it, a noise had brought him back to reality. It was a cat-like sound, barely audible except to the trained ear. Hearing it, he knew it was any of the men from earlier- not the guard nor his interrogators, Abdul and Rashid as he had heard others whisper. They had footsteps like cattle, obnoxiously loud and thunderous. It had to be the boy- Quatre. It was those footsteps that had snuck up on him in his sleep, allowing him to be trapped in this horrid manner.   
  


A soft, wet breeze siphoned through the tent as the flap was opened. The coolness of it brought chills down Trowa's sweat covered back, eating through his thin tunic to the tan skin underneath. Even after the flap closed, the feeling remained for a few seconds. It was a brief moment of refreshment from the tortured heat he was experiencing inside of his make-shift, portable cell.   
  


The Basque craned his neck backwards as he felt the vibrations of the feet underneath him, hoping to God and all that was holy that he was right about it being the young Moor. He couldn't tell, as the inconveniant nature of his position did not allow him enough space to see. It would have been easier, had his shield of long brown hair not fallen directly into his line of vision. It was disconcerting.   
  


In a moment of further discomfort, he felt the person-whoever it was- step over him, each of his feet on a different side of the Basque's chest. A blond head appeared upside down in front of him, grinning impishly at the obvious discomfort of the Vascongado, but the latter was finally able to breathe a silent sigh of relief.   
  


"Hola, Trowa!" Came the delightfully laughing tenor voice.   
  


"Maldito Moro!" muttered the Basque is response.   
  


The delicate lips twisted on the doll-like face, trying to understand Trowa's contempt. Noting his position, he could not help but grin again- eyes sparkling like a little child playing a game. "You knew it was me, so don't be angry." He noted Trowa's ackward position facing away from the door and giggled like a girl. "You're in a bit of a predicament aren't you?"   
  


Trowa spat, in a better position for it this time. Quatre, however was already in the process of righting himself, having no intention of being touched by the vile substance. Therefore, the flying missile went far wide of its intended target, hitting the parched dust underneath which absorbed it eagerly. Frustrated, the Basque dropped his head to the ground and waited for the Moor to finish, or become bored with his current viewpoint.   
  


Shortly, the blonde stepped over and around the bound body, cloth-booted feet sending up clouds of dust that looked like smoke. The tendrils crept down the Basque's throat and into his emerald eyes, causing him to cough and tear up in the same instant. The Moor looked down upon him apologetically, smile fading from his lips. He stood there, blinking until the hacking passed, noting observantly how slow the still exhausted Basque was to recover.   
  


"Water?" he questioned, knowing full well the abuse that the others may have put the prisoner through. The Maguanacs had good intentions, but the methods that they used were not suitable to the young Berber.   
  


Trowa nodded in response, hair hiding the slight hint of desperation evident in his paling face. He was quite dehydrated. After having slept and been tortured without water for a day in this heat the young man was quite ill. His earlier hallucination had been enough to warn him of the danger his mind was in. Not that the Berber had seen the episode of madness. The dark rings under Trowa's eyes had proved to the blonde that his strength was wearing thin, and the youth would need it for any journeying that he was to undergo.   
  


Seeing the necessity, the young Moor pulled his own cantimplora from his loosely tied belt, bending down on one knee to offer it to the prostrate Vascongado. Trowa craned his neck upward eagerly, letting Quatre pour the agua into his waiting mouth. Finding it near impossible to drink, Trowa sought to roll over again. The blond twitched at the movement, but upon seeing its caused obliged in the Basque's unspoken request, rolling him over on his back and sitting him up upon his knee to pour more of the life-giving fluid into him.   
  


The water felt like it was sent from heaven, sweet and divine. It was warm, but it was liquid. The agua ran down his dry throat, rejuvenating his senses like the Fountain of Youth. It was better than any other drink in the worlds at that second, a true nectar of the ancient pagan Greek gods. He closed his eyes in happiness, letting Quatre dribble the water onto his lips and tongue. For a brief moment again, el Moro Angel felt like a true angel sent from God.   
  


The youth pulled the flask away, capping the skin swiftly and without hesitation. "That's enough, Trowa. Too much and you'll be sick. I'll give you more before we move out."   
  


"Move out?" Trowa's voice stumbled over the words. The Moors ... They were leaving? A pang of fear seized his heart. They were moving because of him, to take him somewhere. What were they going to do, sacrifice him to the devil? His eyes searched around wildly for an escape again, moving away whenever he spied the young Berber's face. He twisted in his bonds, not certain of the black force that had come over him, and why it so compelled him to escape. For the second time, the Basque began to act as a madman did.   
  


Quatre saw the look and began to shake him, hoping to chase away the demon before it caught hold and turned the Basque into something deadly. Pallid hands clenched the broad shoulders firmly, drawing Trowa back to the present and away from the fear. "Stop this! Yes, we are leaving for Cordoba! Now throw that demon Iroul from your soul before it kills you."   
  


Trowa's body slumped, muscles free of the adrenelin which compelled him to quiver. The words of consternation allowed his mask to freeze over his face and hide his emotions from the Moor once again. He felt foolish, allowing himself to get so out of control- and in front of an enemy soldier. His face reddened with shame, as he sought to put his mind back in order.   
  


The Moor's face softened as he forced his own tense muscles to relax. Whatever demon had sought to take him was gone. Dainty lips twisted into a frown, eyes filling with a twinge of sorrow. Perhaps if he could convert the poor lost soul, these demonic creatures wouldn't attack him anymore. The youth's soul filled with a kind of sympathy. Yes, maybe if he showed Trowa the way of al-Islam his soul could be saved and el Almohad would spare him. Then, the Basque could live a true and good life devoted to Allah-with none of the tragedies of war to destroy him.   
  


Quatre squatted to the ground, trying to peer at the green eyes hidden behind the strands of mahogany brown hair. He wasn't a bad person-no. Just misled. He was angry because he was confused. Maybe he could explain some things.   
  


"When do we leave ?" mumbled the joven through his hair.   
  


"At sunrise. We make ready to salir after the night guards finish their salat."   
  


The Basque looked up toward the pale Moor's face, brows wrinkling his forehead in a confused expression. "Salat?"   
  


"Prayer. We all must pray five times daily. The night guards just pray at more unusual hours."   
  


Trowa shook his head, picturing a group of Moros bowing down before an idol, making heathen signs of worship to the devil. The demon influence seemed to seep back in him as the youth's expression darkened, currents of anger barely readable under his blank expression.   
  


Quatre saw the look. "Ask a question," he stated, hoping to curb the Basque's possible rage.   
  


"What-who ..." The Vascongado's voice faded off, anger with it, not quite certain of what he wanted to ask.   
  


"What, what?"   
  


"Prayer?"   
  


"Do you not pray?"   
  


"Yes. During every Mass and any other time necessary to cleanse the soul to God." The voice came like ice, as though only a fool would ask that question.   
  


"Mass? That must be similar. We pray five times daily to Allah facing the Holy City, Mecca. That's salat, ritual prayer. What's Mass?"   
  


"Recitations of the Holy Word-Scriptures, communion, and the recitation of prayer to Dios. You've never heard of it?"   
  


The blond shook his head, allowing Trowa another quick sip of water as he spoke again. "You'd never heard of Salat. What's communion?"   
  


"Do you know Eucharist." Quatre shook his head again. "Its the consumption of Bread, which his the body of Christ."   
  


A startled look crossed over the Moor's sea green eyes. "You /eat/ you God!" The hand holding the cantimplora trembled. He was horrified. How pagan could these catolicos be?   
  


To the blonde's surprise, Trowa laughed. "No, we don't /eat/ our God. It's representative of the last Supper of the Son of Dios. He said 'Take of this bread, which is my flesh.' So we honor his death by ... Well ..." He was stuck. It did rather sound like they were eating their God. "I think it represents Dios's presence in our souls."   
  


The Berber was still confused but not as frightened. "So, its a metaphor?"   
  


"To most, yes."   
  


The blond breathed a sigh of relief. However, confusion set in again. For a moment, Quatre had though he had known exactly why el Almohad had said the Christians were barbarous. Now he was uncertain again. Maybe there were a choice few who did believe in eating their God- yes that was it. That was the barbary. Trowa was just different.   
  


The Berber let out a mental sigh. He wasn't giving a very good argument to himself. Still, it was rather sick minded to pretend that one was eating his God.   
  


"Its just bread."   
  


Trowa watched the wide-eyed look of the young blonde for a few more seconds and then began to look around the dark tent again. He wondered briefly how he would be forced to journey. Would he ride alongside one of the Moors, or would they keep him bound and tether his own horse to one of their creatures?   
  


He wasn't sure. Either way it went, the prospect was disconcerting. How was Trueno? Maybe they'd killed him. He fidgeted in his bindings.   
  


"Are you okay?" The Moor had recovered himself, and was back to scrutinizing the Basque. Trowa nodded and fidgeted some more. He had to relieve himself-badly, something he hadn't noticed until he started fidgeting again.   
  


"Vascongado?" questioned Quatre.   
  


The brunnette muttered something under his breath about not wanting to piss in his leggings and the Moor got the general idea, flushing, more than a little embarrassed.   
  


He twitched his mouth and bending over cut the cords binding Trowa's feet. They'd have to remove those to take him anywhere anyway. Placing his damask dagger delicately in the small of the taller youth's back, he prodded him forward. "Come on," he hissed. "I shouldn't be doing this at all."   
  


Trowa obediently walked forward, sidling through the tent flap, Quatre's hand on his shoulder. He let the Moor direct him, knowing that the blond was attempting to keep far away from such figures as Rashid and Abdul. They moved passed the various tents quickly and silently, stopping only when they reached the cover of brush where the Basque could obtain some amount of privacy.   
  


The Moor turned his back, hands firmly gripping Trowa's binds. "Now hurry."   
  


Silence ensued for a moment, then Trowa spoke again. "My leggings ..."   
  


"What?"   
  


"I can't-" he stopped himself before speaking any further.   
  


Quatre groaned. The Vascongado could not very well remove his trousers with his hands tied behind his back. The Berber gulped. He couldn't very well remove the bindings without risking the Basque's escape. And the alternative ... The blonde twitched. This situation couldn't get much worse.   
  


"Should I ... The belt." Quatre whispered, becoming conscious of his face growing red. He fought it off, but upon turning around to face the hapless Spaniard it turned bright crimson again.   
  


Trowa looked at him incriminatingly. A man, touching near ... Dios, what else could happen. He had to get these pants off-Now. Damn captivity. Flustered, he forced consent from him lips. The only happiness he obtained from the sentence was the grimace that crossed Raberba's face. At least he wasn't twisted enough to ... He forced the thought from his head before it had the chance to make a firm imprint on his brain, trying to find some other thing to think about while the Berber fumbled with belt about his waist.   
  


Finally completing the task, Quatre stumbled away from the older man, hoping to purge the experience from his mind with the site of the weathered grass and the campsite. He felt vomit rise in his body from such unholy ... His body spasmed, and he fell to his knees, letting the release of the crude substance in his stomach purge his soul clean from his ... duties. Pressing the strange, unholy thoughts that surfaced from his mind and back into the demon from whence they came.   
  


Finally, the wretching subsided and he stood, spitting the last bits of the poison from his lips. His face was much more pallid now, but he felt better inside for it. Brushing off his robe, he turned back to the Basque finding himself in another ... situation.   
  


It seemed Trowa hadn't been able to get his pants back on either. Quatre's pulse quickened as his panic rose. He didn't want to go through ... that again. So much for things not getting worse, he now had a man's barely covered buttocks glaring at him in the barely dawning light.   
  


Trowa gave and apologetic, ashamed look back at the beleaguered Moor. The Basque was enjoying this situation on about the same level as his blonde fellow.   
  


"Promise me that once these pants are belted back on my waist," he begged, "That you will never speak of this to anyone ever."   
  


There was no arguing with that.   
  


Quatre walked back to the pathetic soldier and bent down to replace the fallen leggings. As he touched their leathery substance, he felt the bile begin to rise again. He fought back the repulsion, drawing the pants up the Basque's muscled legs and buttocks back to his waist where they belonged. Strapping the belt, he vomited again- allowing the strange senstaions that so repulsed his soul to fade with the spasms.   
  


Trowa watched him, unnerved but sympathetic to the poor Moor. Obviously these Berbers had some moral standards- and high ones- as he was puking over being in such practically intimate contact with a man of his own gender. It struck a chord of compassion in his heart, yet there was some mocking tone in his mind, laughing at him and asking him why /could/ the Moor be so upset with him.   
  


He pushed it away, not wanting to know the answer, feeling it was the key to some secret in his own soul that he could not let escape from beyond its locked door. The Basque shuddered as he watched, not knowing truly what prompted it.   
  


The poor Moor ... He was really sick over this. "Moro- er, Quatre. Will you be okay?"   
  


The heaves dropped off and the blond stood again, an air of the sickness still left in his eyes. "I'm fine," he replied weakly. He spat at the ground again, then rinsed his mouth with the water of his cantimplora. He swirled the liquid in his mouth, removing the remains of the second dose of vile liquid he had this morning.   
  


"Are you sure?"   
  


The Berber nodded, walking back to the prisoner, who, to his astonishment, had not bolted. He picked his loose dagger up from the ground, stowing it in the belt of his robe. It was obvious that the threat was not necessary anymore. Trowa had no intent of trying to escape while so obviously exhausted. He grabbed the Basque firmly on the shoulder, wrinkling the tunic under his gripping fingers.   
  


"Come on, Trowa," he said with a tired tone, pressing the brunette forward with a weary motion. The tall man walked with him, not wanting to argue, just wanting the memory to fade with the dawning of morning. He looked to where the light was beginning to skim the horizon.   
  


"So we will ready to leave now?"   
  


Quatre nodded, breathing heavily after his physical and mental ordeal. "The sun is rising. We need to prepare the horses."   
  


The word 'horses' drew Trowa's mind back to his own steed. He was almost afraid to ask the question that followed. "And /my/ horse?"   
  


Quatre tried to laugh, but the effort was strained. "You're stallion is fine, but away from our horses. We didn't want him to cause trouble." He looked at Trowa as they walked around the tent from whence they came and headed toward the main camp area. "Your alforjas have been confiscated- it's for safety."   
  


The Basque nodded, a little offended. "Did ..." he paused. "Did the Aguanatos look at them?"   
  


"Maguanacs?" The blond smiled tensely, color finally returning to his cheeks. "No, I have kept them. Only I will touch them until el Almohad asks for them. Your items were curious and I am interested to know about your diario. It is not in Castellano."   
  


"No, its vasquence, Euskaldunak. It is the language of my home country."   
  


"You will have to tell me its contents."   
  


"No, I won't. Its my private book and you don't need to know."   
  


"I have it in my robes."   
  


Trowa's face reddened as Quatre took out the small leatherbound book. Green eyes narrowed in frustration. He felt violated.   
  


The blonde looked at him curiously. "I can't read it, and only flipped through to see unfamiliar words." He opened the book. Trowa could have kicked him, but decided against it when he spied Rashid watching them intently from where the camp teardown was taking place.   
  


Blue eyes examined the words, noting the form and strange abrupt paragraphs. After a moment of annoying the Basque with his intense scrutiny, the Berber realized that the words were in stanzas.   
  


"This is poetry, not a diario!" he exclaimed. It was a surprising discovery to the Moor, who had believed that the catolicos had lost all sense of art and culture. He fingered the book with his white fingers, and then careful placed it back into his robes, not being able to find a way to return it to its rightful owner. No wonder the soldier was angry-poetry came from the soul and the soul was something that one never wanted to reveal to a stranger.   
  


"Lo siento. It was more personal than events."   
  


Trowa sighed, releasing his anger with the breath. "De nada. Its ... words. Perhaps one day I will share them, if I am to be captured long. It will spend time." He looked at where Quatre had stashed the book with longing. How he wished that he could take the book back. He wished very much now to empty his soul upon the paper with heartfelt words into the heavens. Maybe on the paper he could understand these events better. Poetry always spoke so much to him.   
  


The Berber eyed the spot that Trowa stared at and sighed again. "Maybe, you will have the chance to write more poetry in your book. I didn't know the Spaniards were so cultured."   
  


Trowa chuckled, anger completely faded. "Most aren't. Mostly Catalunians and a few Castellanos. I don't know how many of us use poetry instead of diaries to convey our feelings. Our race lacks the creativity of some."   
  


"I should like to hear your poetry. I'm sure it has a deep and wonderful meaning. Maybe then, you could hear mine. Of course, you wouldn't understand Berber or Arabic ..."   
  


Trowa smiled. "Its not the language that holds the meaning. That's the wonder of poetry."   
  


Quatre quirked his eyebrows, looking at the Basque in a new light. There was a lot of truth to what he said. Language was only a small obstacle. If the soul spoke through the poem, it was irrelevant. That's what made it so secret.   
  


The camp had become busier now. There was the loud sounds of canvas flapping and horses being herded to be girthed and mounted. Everyone was busy with a task, except the two of them. Of course, Quatre was never interrupted, so it was assumed by the prisoner that he never helped tear-down camp unless he felt like it.   
  


Trowa looked about the camp, overwhelmed by it all. Every thing was moving so swiftly. By the time the sun had crept up the hills, The tents were down and the gear was being loaded onto the Barbs that the Maguanacs chose to ride. Trowa was in the middle of all this chaos, searching for Trueno and waiting for Quatre to tell him what he needed to do.   
  


"Quatre?"   
  


"Hmm." The blond had dozed off for a few moments, hypnotised by the rhytmic action of his counterparts. Oceany eyes blinked until they were aware again. As if suddenly he remembered his purpose, the youth yanked on the brunettes shoulder, leading him to the right.   
  


"Ali!" he yelled to one of the dark-skinned men. "Ali, saddle the Vascongado's caballo. I want him and Alba ready to go in ten minutes. I want the stallion tethered to-" he paused. Boy, tethering a stallion to his beloved mare might not be smart. He shook it off. "Find a way to tether him onto my saddle."   
  


"Yes, Master Quatre."   
  


Trowa started. It was the first time he had heard anyone call him that. "Master Quatre."   
  


The youth nodded. "Yes, they call me Master Quatre. I can't get them to stop." He paused, cocking his head at the other youth. "What is your horse's name?"   
  


"Trueno, his name is Trueno."   
  


"Ah, because he's black like a thunderbolt."   
  


"Yes. Are all of your horses mares?"   
  


"Yes," the youth snickered.   
  


"But they aren't strong."   
  


"Yes, yes they are, and quiet. Stallions always trumpet at other horses. They have no stealth. I can't understand why you Spanish people love stallions."   
  


Trowa couldn't think of a reason either. He had always considered them strong and powerful, able to carry an armored soldier and his gear. However, a mare could do it, if she wasn't with foal- stallions didn't have that problem.   
  


"Master Quatre?" The voice was Ali, who had brought the horses. Trowa breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his Trueno was unscathed. However, he started in surprise when he saw Quatre's mare.   
  


The mare, Alba, was unlike any beast he had ever seen before. She was a gorgeous creature, unlike the primative Barbs that the other Berbers rode. No, she was an exquisite Arab mare with beautiful concave head and deep, liquid brown eyes that stared out of her fine head with such an incredibly gentle expression. Her whole body was delicate, but muscled. She was covered with silken, gold fur and luxuriously long silver mane and tail that was like not unlike moonbeams. She carried her tail proud where she stood and looked at the world like she was saying: "I am Quatre Raberba's horse, the greatest beast alive." She looked very much like the dawn that surrounded them, for which she was named.   
  


It took Trowa's breath away, much as Trueno had when he had first spied him at auction. "She is precious, Quatre."   
  


"I love her very much." He smiled at the sight of her. "She was a gift from Iria, my sister,and she is the most precious thing I own."   
  


Trowa could easily see that. Quatre's face glimmered with nostalgic happiness as he stared at the grand creature. It must have reminded him of his boyhood and happier times. It made the Basque wonder where the Berber had come from and who the rest of his family was.   
  


Quatre turned away from the Basque, having seen a motion from Rashid that prompted him to action. "Here, I'll help you onto your horse."   
  


Trowa took the prooffered hand, using it as a step to the back of his steed, who grunted in protest. It took him a moment to get situated without the use of his hands, Trueno sidling under him all the while. However, with the use of his thighs he was soon settled and Quatre mounted up, urging his mount forward with an invisible touch from his heels.   
  


She started forward, yanking the black steed forward with a jump. He pranced about as she trotted, full of energy and ego. Trowa could feel that the stallion was showing off for such a lovely lady, and grinned inwardly to himself. Quatre, oblivious to Trowa's amusement, urged Alba to a position in the front of the mounted Maguanacs pausing there to receive any news from Rashid.   
  


"To Cordoba?" he questioned lightly.   
  


"Yes, Master Quatre."   
  


The youth nodded and dropped back slowly, letting the Vascongado adjust to the lack of control that was unfamiliar to him. As he looked at the other youth and the incredibly strange feeling that he had been repulsed by in the dark surfaced again is his mind. He fought with it passively, hoping it would fade without him ever discovering its unholy origin or purpose. As the train moved forward he concentrated on the movements of his horse, pushing all other thoughts from his soul.   
  


As the troop moved forward, Quatre smiled to himself and sighed. The journey to Cordoba had begun.   
  


TBC.   
  


Author's Notes::   
  


1. Alba: Dawn. I think that this particular word is of Arabic descent. I could be wrong. I thought it was pretty.   
  


2. Dios: God   
  


3. Maldito: Damned. And now, everyone knows a curse word in Spanish.   
  


4. Cantimplora: Canteen or flask.   
  


5. Al-Islam: committing oneself unreserved to God. Its how Islam gets its name.   
  


6. Salir: to leave   
  


7. Vasquence: Basque language   
  


8. Lo siento: I'm sorry for it.   
  


9. De nada: Its nothing.   
  


10. Iroul: the angel of fear, sometimes called fell. I love angel lore, and I swear that it pops up in everything I write. Its really one of my current obsessions which evolved into an RPG instead of a fic.   
  


Other Notes:   
  


Alba is based off a horse I invented as a child. Lol. Just so you know^^.

If anyone finds flaw in my knowledge of Islam or Catholicism, feel free to correct me. The two religions are very important to this fic and if the research I have done proves flawed, I would like to fix my mistakes!! 

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Chapter 1 : Agua Chapter 2 : Mentiras Chapter 3 : La Condesita de Cataluna Chapter 4 : Alba 

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	5. El Viaje

**Entre los dos almas   
  
**

**Archived: http://fanfiction.net, http://geocities.com/lukleia/index3.html**

**World: Gundam Wing **

**Rating: R, violence and innuendos **

**Genre: A.U., historical **

**Warnings: Yaoi, violence **

**Pairings: 3x4, 4x3 **

**Contact: Kasage_Starrunner@excite.com   
  
  
**

**Disclaimer:   
  
**

_The author has no affiliation with Sunrise, Bandai or any other organization licensing or holding © to Gundam Wing. This is a work of AU fanfiction for the entertainment of Gundam Wing fandom. The plot is techinically © me, though you'll have to thank the Moors and Christians who died for the history._

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**Chapter Five**

**El Viaje**

The Guadalquivir made a lazy silver trail along the still russet grounds near its banks.  The sun shone like a heathen burning in hell and the humidity made skin and cloths stick, and once silken hair hang limply against dark and light shining foreheads.  It had been a day and a half since the Vascongado has begun his journey with Quatre to the city of Cordoba.  His utter weariness had never quite escaped him and it was difficult for the youth to stay atop his horse without a firm grip on the creature's neck.  Several times, he had almost fallen asleep but forced himself to keep his eyes open and his legs firmly locked around the barrel of Trueno's black belly.  More than once, the Basque had felt himself slipping even though he was awake.  The only thing keeping him on the horse was his pride-he would not appear weak before these hateful Moros.

The Berber youth escorting him glanced briefly to look at Trowa and smiled to himself.  There was such a look of pure determination in that ruggedly handsome young face.  The green eyes glinted with the coldness of a gem, determination burning like fire in his set brows.  They wrinkled his forehead, and the blonde could see the edges of weariness about them, being forced away by pure will.  However, the Basque could not eliminate the sunken purple crescents under his eyes.  Trowa's energy wasn't far from failing.

Quatre sunk further into the rocking stride of his mare.  The Basque was stronger than he first thought-though the strength he contained was different than brute force.  This catolico had a strong will stronger than any man's he had ever before seen.  Lids fluttered over blue eyes as he thought.  If he were in the position of the Vascongado, could he be as strong?  The youth doubted it, glancing to the pale, delicate hands lightly grasping the reins of his horse.  He was fragile, much more fragile than the Basque physically, he was sure.  Perhaps even Trowa's will was stronger.  Quatre had never before had it truly tested or not in this manner.  He had other trials collected to his name, but being captured by an enemy was not one of them. 

He reined back Alba, slowing her to a walk so he could adjust his robes, turban, and hood, letting his mind wander as he scanned the land around.  Yesterday afternoon they had arrived at the shore of the Guadalquivir and thus far the river journey had been pleasant and unspoiled.  It was a beautiful oasis for those who had just crossed La Mancha into the realm of Andalusia.

Alba slowed and drew to a halt, stopping Trueno with her, as Quatre gazed as the beautiful world around him.  The soft gurgling water from the river could be heard, feeding life into the livening palms and semi-tropical trees.  A butterfly flew by.  The youth watched, amused by the multicolored wings, imagining the light touch of them brushing across his peach-fuzz face.

A blush rose to his cheeks like an inward smile.  This Life Allah had created was so precious.  Why did so many people wish to destroy it?  Tears prickled in his warm oceanic eyes.  All of this life here was so fragile, could so easily be destroyed by a torch or battle.  He brushed his hand across his cheek in an attempt to force back his child-like emotions.  Tears were for women and children.  A man could not afford to show weakness.  That was what his father told him and his father was to be obeyed, even now.

And yet …  Quatre looked to the Basque, staring deeply into his stark green eyes.  This man here had a soul, Allah had gifted him with life, just like he had all of the other soldiers they fought.  What gave them the right to destroy them?  Was it because they were Allah's chosen people?  No, that still did not give them a right to this needless carnage.  This jihad was foolishly wasting lives that could be brought to see the face of Allah.  Why was that concept so hard for el Almohad to understand.

Trowa watched the youth's facial gestures through the mask of his hair.  /_What is that lunatic Moor doing?/ he thought, panting for want of breath and weariness.  He watched his face as the Moor's eyes filled with tears.  He couldn't help but admire those perfect sea colored eyes.  You could see the waves of the Mediterranean in them, and depending on his mood they seemed to change like the very water they appeared to be.  Now they were so soft._

Trowa drug his thoughts away, reinstituting his barrier.  Tears, it was childish of the youth.  He was a child.  What ever compelled the heathens to make that _baby a soldier.  It was a mockery to the institution.  What was there to cry about?  First, the nino had thrown up because he had to touch the Basque and now this.  _

Quatre seemed to think it foolish too, for shortly his eyes hardened again, returning to a solemn disposition.  Trowa turned away just when the Berber looked at him again, casting his eyes to the ground below, then thought better of it.  He would not allow the angel to believe he had any authority over the Vascongado.  Better to stare him in the face than look at the ground like a member of a harem, despite the kindness of the captor.

Quatre was haunted by the coldness that suddenly appeared in the eyes.  Was this Vascongado playing a game with him, or was this ice a mask like so many soldiers wore?  He shifted in his seat, the saddle leather creaking beneath him.  Spanish saddles were so uncomfortable for the rider and you could not feel the horse underneath you.  He couldn't wait to exchange this cumbersome thing to something more to his taste-but the saddlebags were a convenient item.

Adbul's voice jarred him out of his saddle study.  "Master Quatre, Rashid asked me to see if you're alright."

"I'm fine," replied the fair youth, waving him off.  "I just stopped to enjoy Allah's creation.  Tell Rashid that we should stop for water here, and a bath.  I haven't cleaned myself in days and that's unsanitary, not to mention uncouth.  Besides, the Vascongado is exhausted, though he will not admit it."

Abdul scratched his dark head.  "I don't see why, but I'll tell him."

"Thank you."

The Maguanac returned to the front as Trowa glared at the Berber youth from behind.  "Why did you say that?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Because you are tired and too proud to say it.  You need a rest, that's all."

"I'm fine," he hissed.  It was a lie.  As he leaned toward the Moor to speak, the world swam underneath him.  He felt nauseated.  Everything moved in a swirling motion.  His body tilted wildly, his feet catching in the stirrups as his body slid.  His stomach lurched inside him as the ground grew closer.  Trueno jumped, frightened at the sudden unfamiliar weight change by his rider.

A pale hand darted to lift Trowa's floundering body back onto his disturbed stallion.   The young blond leapt from his horse and removed Trowa from his stirrups and then saddle before the body could sink out of control again.  The Basque didn't fight, only melted toward the ground, will destroyed by the touch of the Berber.

Trueno, unsure of what this stranger was doing to his master, reared as Trowa was pulled from his back, knocking Quatre to the ground and Trowa landing with a dead thump.  The horse snorted and paced, waiting for the Arab to move again so he could strike.

"Ho, Trueno.  No," mumbled Trowa, not even wanting to move now that he was horizontal.  The steed calmed himself at the sound of its master's voice and decidedly began to tease Quatre's golden mare, to which she responded with a kick.  The black horse snorted and backed away, allowing the snooty mare to ignore him for the time being.

The blond boy shook his head and sat up.  Looking over at the prostrate Basque.  "That's a very loyal beast."

"Mmm," Trowa muttered from the ground, having lost the energy to say anything remotely intelligent.

"You'll rest now?" question Quatre, standing to brush the grass and dirt from his robes.

The Vascongado just closed his eyes in response, letting sleep overcome him by the river.  His pride could no longer argue with his bodily needs-again.  Quatre nodded, and stood, brushing the red dust from the light embroidered burnoise and robes.

Abdul returned with Rashid, who glared under bear-like brows at the unconscious Trowa.  He stroked his beard and looked at Quatre, who was now removing his turban and cloak in preparation for his bath.

"Master Quatre?" Abdul questioned.

Quatre turned around and smiled.  "I told you, I want a bath.  If you two are so intent on staying dusty then you can stay and watch Trowa.  However, I insist that the other Maguanacs wash themselves."

The blond waved the two off and stepped over to the brush by the rivers side, peeling off the layers of travel worn, ruddy clothes down to bare ivory skin.  He heard the other men follow his lead, rushing much less silently to the bank to remove the grime that had built up from too long travel.

The thin white legs, waded into the river, squishing the mud between long toes.  The water felt like cold silk on his body--luxurious enough for a sultan.  The breeze rippled the river as it reached Quatre's naked belly, then chest, then neck.  Bare feet stroked the bottom on nimble toes.  Currents tickled, fish passing by on their lazy routes.

He watched the other men bathing without a qualm.  It made him smile to see them enlivened so.  There was no remnants of the strange, nauseous feeling that had overtaken the Berber at the thought of touching Trowa's pants.  These naked bodies brought no such feelings or temptations to purge.

Temptations.

Quatre suddenly dived under the water and held his breath, pulling his legs to his chest and kicking deep--deeper.  He hung their, like a fetus, trying to pull past the thoughts and emotions to the higher light of Allah.  However feelings that to him were impure wrenched across his chest and abdomen.

He clutched tighter, upside-down, head near touching bottom.  Bubbles of air escaped from his mouth like pure thoughts, but his thoughts were impure.  He wasn't thinking anything, but he knew that the thoughts were impure.

/_What is wrong with me?\_

Imagination, it was getting out of hand.  His breath bubbled out and Quatre somersaulted, surfacing with a gasp of breath.  The water glittered upward in the sunlight like so many diamonds, while beads pearled on the blondes pale and rosy face.  Only the heaving breaths came for a few seconds and then they subsided.

/_Must be clean … Must be pure.\_

Quatre wretched, and on an impulse started grabbing handfuls of silt to rub his body with.  It scraped his sides white, like sand at home.  Purity, he was searching for purity as the abrasive substance rubbed off layer after layer of dead, unclean skin.  He wretched again and scraped harder, knowing that the silt was turning his skin red.  The blond rubbed all over, even in the unpleasant places that it near burned.  He didn't care.  His father had told him … unclean thoughts.

The blond dashed naked from the water, falling on his side in a bush, vomiting again.  /_Unclean thoughts must be purged.  Unclean.\  He remembered his father's gagging.  He was his father's holy child.   Evil and unclean thoughts must be erased. _

The bile spilled forth again and Quatre choked, hands clutched to his throat.  He knew that the other Maguanacs must hear him, but they didn't move.  Rashid had told them long ago about Quatre.  He had told them to let him be, without ever asking why.

The heaving ceased, but the Berber remained curled for a moment, shaking.  It had been two years since the purging feelings had come to him.  Two years since he had coughed up black bile because of sinful feelings.  Why now?  A sign from Allah?  

The golden head lifted weakly as the water dripped off of his chin.  Trowa?  Was this punishment for the Basque.  His stomach pained him as he stood up and stumbled forward.  So much chastising long ago.  He had forgotten what he had done.  Only that qadi and his father had tried to cure him of his ills.  They said he had the body of a prophet and one day Allah would speak to him, if he were pure.

Drip-drip.  The water congealing and then slipped down the alabaster frame as Quatre walked numb in his thoughts.  The brush and dust grabbed his naked feet.  Vague eyes saw the blue, empty sky and he wondered if his gaze looked like that.

He walked to Trowa, to Rashid and Abdul, to the open.  The white body had forgotten its nakedness.  The eyes barely registered the three.  A body ran toward him.

"Master Quatre, you must cover yourself."

The blond blinked as the rough bournoise was wrapped about his trembling, wet body.  Quatre coughed and nearly fell, but the large hands of Rashid caught him.

"Abdul, get Master Quatre's cloths.  He's had a fit again."

Quatre curled up on the ground.  A fit, so that was what they called it.  He pulled the bournoise close and gazed at the sleeping vascongado.

/_Why are you here?  Oh Allah!  What are you doing to me?\_

****************************************************

Trowa woke to an animalistic wailing sound.  He at first thought it was a wolf, crying lonely and quavering in the woods, however they were too far south for wolves to be that common.  He stretched his stiff limbs, hearing the crack as the startling sound continued.  Was it singing?

He shot up, a little too fast for his muscles, and looked around.  The berber!  That maldito moro was wailing like a demon.  Green eyes stared at him icily as the blond continued his foreign song.  It took a moment for Trowa to realize that there were indeed words being sung--though these words were Arabic.

There was something holy in Quatre's face as he sung.  His eyes gazed out at the horizon, as though he were only aware of a god or His angels singing in a choir with the berber.  Trowa watched the throat quiver on the slender neck.  

Devoid of his robe and singing with such emotion, Quatre looked fragile.

The vascongado looked off at the horizon himself and tried to ignored the sound, but it wove its way into him.  That which at first seemed heathen sunk into him and became the core of emotion itself, so diffirent from the bards and folksongs of his homelands.  The sound even conveyed a meaning.  

/_This is what angels sound like.\_

The sound suddenly stopped and Trowa looked about him, confused.  Quatre was staring straight at him, vacant eyes slowly realizing the Basque was awake.

"Oh, Trowa, you're awake."  He sounded muffled, like a punished child.  There was no smile or taunting just sorrow, and a rosy hint of embaressment brushed across his cheeks.

"Is that how Moros sing?"

"Those that can."  The golden head rested on knees pulled up to his chest.  He did not look at Trowa--could not look at Trowa.

"I thought it was a demon at first, but then, for a moment, thought you really were an angel."

"Even demons were angels once.  And I'm no angel."

They sat in silence for a moment before the brunnette spoke again.  "What were you singing, Quatre."

The blond looked up.  "You want to know."

"Yes."  

"I was singing about a man traveling across the desert to war, thinking of his love--his most perfect love, and their last night together before he left."

"Los cristianos do not have poems about love like that."

A smile crawled across Quatre's face.  "It is considered blasphemy back across the straight--in all countries obeying Al-islam but this one.  We are only supposed to love Allah.  However--"

"There is something beautiful about human love and compassion, yes.  The catolicos would burn me for heresy--loving something other than God."

"Then we have something in common after all."  He was confused again.  His enemy--he was supposed to hate him, and yet there was so much to like about the Basque--bravery, wisdom ...  He was like one of the Maguanacs to him--A prisoner!  A thoughtful catolico--he never would have guessed.

"Can you translate the song for me?"

"Hmm?"

"I would love to hear the song--spoken in castellano.  If you sing it that way, it would not be the same."

Quatre blushed.  "I sang:

            "Alone in the desert

            I long for you.

            You with your face

            Round like the full moon.

            Cinnamon eyes

            Gazing at me with

            Bashful affection.

            That last night 

            I could taste the wine 

            On your full lips.

            I could smell the lingering

            Of your perfume.

            I smell it now

            Even in the howling

            Of the desert wind."

"That was ... beautiful."  He knew that wasn't the right word, but it was all he had.  The Guadalquivir glinted through the trees.  He sighed.

"You didn't like it?"

"No, there is just no word for it.  I have never heard poetry like that, only written it."

"A poet is a lonely person."

The Basque raised an eyebrow.  "And?"

"And so is a musician."

"So, I am both."

"As am I, and we are both lonely warriors."

Trowa picked at the grass by his feet and Quatre pulled his knees closer.  Trueno grazed behind them, picketed near the vascongado and far away from the mares.  The brunnette turned his head to watch him for a moment, and then whistled.  The great black head lifted and the ears "looked" at the brunnette.

"Trueno."

The steed stepped over and sniffed his master throughly, nibbling slightly on the brown hair.  "Excuse me, Caballo, that is my hair, not grass."

Quatre chuckled a minute.  "It seems your closest friend is an animal."

"Horses only gossip to other horses.  They keep my secrets."  Trowa stroked the black stallion's nose, feeling the hot air rush in and out of the great nostrils.  The lips quivered and lipped at the tan hands, seeking salt.  Finding little, Trueno again turned to the grass, tail swishing away bugs.

"How do you Europeans find horses so big?"  The blue eyes stared in awe at Trueno's size and bulk.

"A long time ago, our war horses would have plowed fields.  Field horses don't get excited and can carry a lot.  So many war horses have come from their types.  Trueno has working blood in him, like me."

"Well, it is hard to plow fields in the desert--but you must travel many miles."

"That, Trueno cannot do so easily."

Trueno looked up as though offended, but then went back to eating his grass.  Quatre laughed again and stood, brushing the soil from his under-robes.

"Would he mind if I--"

"Let me come with you.  After all, you captured me and he is wary of strangers to begin with."

Quatre helped the Basque up onto his feet.  The two walked toward Trueno, who laid his ears back with unease.

"Whoa, Trueno.  Quatre won't hurt you.  He isn't bad, for a maldito Moro."

The horse snorted, but didn't balk as Quatre approached his head.  For a breath moment, he lowered his nose into the black steed's nostril and blew air into.  Trueno relaxed and pointed his ears toward the berber, blowing air back at him.  The blond reach a pale hand up and patted Trueno's neck.

"What were you doing?"  Trowa had never seen anything like the exchange of air.

"I am gaining his trust, just as anyone must do to get along.  That is how horses greet each other, Trowa.  Blowing air.  It helps them decided whether they mean any harm or not."

"They truly do that?"

"Yes.  You didn't know?  You should watch them."

"I never watched horses, only sheep."

"A shepherd?  That explains it."

"Explain?  What does it explain?"

"Why you are so gentle.  You are a David in a world of Goliaths, shepherd boy."

"And what are you?"

"I'd prefer not to talk about it.  My family is ... difficult."

"I understand.  I can not talk of mine."

Quatre looked at him curiously.

"It is hard to talk of a family that you do not know."

"Oh."  The berber watched the river.  "Well, its not good to have too large a family either ..."

Trueno nibbled at Quatre's golden hair, and Trowa swatted him away as best he could.  "Stop that."  This only caused the horse to rub his head on the Berber.  "He knows too."

The moro forced a smile again.  "You are a wiser horse than I though, Trueno."  He looked at Trowa bindings.  "I don't think you need these anymore.  Where are you going to run with 40 armed men around."

"Nowhere, but what will Ra-ra-"

"Rashid?"

"Rashid, yes.  What would he think?"

"I will just have to explain in to him."

The maguanacs were now becoming more active around the river.  Having showered and slept, things were again being strapped to horses.  

"It seems as though we are moving out."

Quatre nodded.  Cordoba ... What would Cordoba do with a vascongado?

TBC.

1.   _Guadalquivir:  One of the southern rivers of Spain that travels alongside both Sevilla and Cordoba as I recall.  _

2.   _burnoise:  a cloak with a hood commonly worn by all of the Andalusians, but most often the Moors._

3.   _qadi:  judge and "religious leader", but only sort of.  I'll explain more in a later chapter._

4.  The poem:  I made it up in the style of Andalusian poetry.  It is not in its traditional form, purely because I wrote it with the idea of a translation in mind.  Wine, women, and Allah were popular themes in poetry of the timeperiod.


End file.
